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Heart Throbs and \ 
Hoof Beats 




Poems of T'raci, Stable ajid Fi?'eside 



By Walter Palmer 




Cover by Rodney Thompson 
From the Press of 

HiLLIS-MuRGOTTEN Co., SaN JoSE, CaLIFORNI/ 

1922 




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Copyrighted 1922, by Walter Palmer 



©CI.AG8a979 
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CONTENTS 

Page 

Toast — The Horse 9 

Hearthstone Meditations 10 

Unfailing Signs 14 

The Hobles Sadie Wore 16 

A Friend 27 

Uhlan 28 

Those Old High Wheels 30 

E. F. Geers 33 

That Democrat Wagon of Dad's... 35 

Away 39 

The Secretary Man 40 

Reflections of a Rover 44 

The Chestnut Horse and Joe 46 

The Old-Time Fair 51 

Charles E. Dean 52 

Casey Jones 54 

Back Home 57 

Reveries 59 

When She Was Here 63 

The Road to Everywhere 65 

The Picture on the Wall 66 

How the Doctor Lost and Won 72 

The Country Store 78 

Budd Doole 82 

McMahon's Boy 84 

Twilight 88 

The Old Homestead 89 

The Old White Fire Team 92 

A Real Optimist 96 

The Blacksmith Shop 99 

The Sport Worth While 102 

Finis 106 



3 



IN APPRECIATION 

^1 HE AUTHOF^^ wishes to express his 
■• gratitude to The Horseman, The 
Horse Review, The Show Horse Chronicle 
and the several gentlemen who have as- 
sisted in securing the })ictures contained 
herein. 





Cfe'.iCiPi 



FOREWORD 

Did vou ever, i.lear reader, really love a horse? Have 
you L._v.ii one of those fortunate mortals who have lived 
a portion of their lives out in the gorgeous freedom of 
God's open country? Have you ever as a child confided 
your joys and sorrows to a i)ony or poured out to some 
equine friend, tried and true, the anguish of your soul ? 
Have you ever looked into those great, limpid, hazel eyes 
when all the world seemed against you and read therein 
the promise to share your successes and reverses through 
the sunshine and shadow of life? If so. then there has 
come to you that supreme satisfaction that comes from 
an intimate association with man's best friend, a satisfac- 
tion which can not emanate elsewhere and which all the 
mechanical things in Christendom can not produce. 

I have come to look with compassion upon those un- 
fortunate individuals into whose lives there has never 
come the lasting influence of AN OLD ROAN MARE; 
possibly she was as white as the drifting snows that hid 
the hedge rows in winter ; mayhap she was as black as 
the cawing- crows that voiced a vigorous protest at your 
untimely intrusian ; i)erhance she was the color of your 
own chub1)y hands in butter-nut time. Be that as it may, 
a memory of her faithfulness and constancy has abided 
with you on down through the years and prompted you to 
purer motives and higher ideals. Undaunted by heat or 
cold, she served you on festive occasions, and brought 
succor and relief in the hour of your affliction. Through 
the inky blackness of the night and against the fury of the 
tempest, the old mare brought you home, wdiere warmth 
and comfort and loved ones awaited your coming, and 
where her deeds and the deeds of her progeny were an 
oft-told tale. The ingenuity of man may devise other 
methods of tilling the soil ; uncertain devices will emanci- 
pate our animals from the drudgery of menial lal)or, but 
time can not efiface the record or dim the achievements 
of those sturdy, faithful steeds whose service so largely 
aided and abetted the pioneers in the development of this 
great country, and so to their memory and to the friends 
of horses evervwhere, this book is respectfullv dedicated. 

— W. B. P. 



Man's love of his horse is not a thing of yesterday. It 
is age-old and has grown greater the further '•emoveu ne 
has become from the dawn of time. As he emerged from 
the silent day of savagery perfumed with the hidden 
flowers of unknowing innocence, and began his long course 
through the silver silence of the night, to his ultimate 
estate of Man, always has he been accompanied by his 
never-failing, never-faltering Horse. Side by side they 
have come down the illimitable Corridors of Time and in 
the company of his horse. Man has ever escaped the sheer 
weight of unbearable loneliness. So the ties of comrade- 
ship and the sense of security have become interwoven 
into the deepest recesses of the very heart of mankind 
and the Love of his Horse is as world-wide as are those 
thoughts whose very sweetness yield proof that they were 
born for Immortality. "The Idea of Immortality, that 
like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with 
its countless waves of hope and fear beating against the 
shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any 
book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. It was born 
of Human Affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow 
beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as 
long as Love kisses the lips of Death." Human Affec- 
tion! The cry of the hungry heart! The unutterable 
yearning for that sympathy of the one kindred soul which 
will really Know and Understand and Console! — THUS 
THE HORSE ABIDES. 

— H. J. KRUM in the Show Horse Chronicle. 



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THE HORSE 



The Horse is the thing ; 

You may have the thrills 

That come with the gasoline, 

You may have the spills 

And the pace that kills 

In your auto or flying machine, 

For the flyer that flies 

In the vaulted skies 

Must come to earth if his engine dies, 

But the fire that lies 

In a horse's eyes 

Is the spark that lives and intensifies, 

So here's to the horse 

—THE KING— 




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Page nine 




JUST A BOY, A DOG, A TROTTER 

HEARTHSTONE MEDITATIONS 



When the colts are snug and cozy 

From the chilHng Winter hlast, 
And you're all alone and dozy 

Just a-dreaming of the past. 
Then the rudy glowing- embers 

Fitful shadows paint for me 
Scenes when life was light and happy 

And my heart was fancy free ; 
Just a boy, a dog, a trotter — • 

Ah, Fd give my very all 
Just to live those old days over 

When I slept out in a stall. 

You can have your golf and polo, 
And your yatching, if you please, 




Page ten 




I can tell you of a pastime 

Worth a dozen such as these. 
Get a trotter or a show horse 

For there's naught on Earth com])ares 
To the fun a fellow really has 

Who does the glad Fall fairs, 
Throw away the pepsin taljlets. 

Smash the l)ottles one and all, 
Just forget your i)ains and trouhles. 

Get hack to Nature in a stall. 



There's no orchestra a-playing, 

There's no giddy caharet, 
Just a colored groom a-strumming 

On a banjo far away, 
"Old Black Joe" and "Suwanee River" 




Page eleven 



ii;:^:-Uf V 



Sweet as from a linnet's throat 
While your trotter stops his munching 

So you needn't miss a note; 
You may have your prima donnas, 

For to me the best of all 
Are the melodies of nature 

That you hear out in a stall. 




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You can talk about your Biltmores 

And your Blackstones and Savoys, 
With their taxicabs and telephones 

And bell-hops and their noise, 
You can have your elevators 

And your marble lobbies fine, 
But I'll take a pair of blankets 

And a big box stall for mine; 
You won't need a call for breakfast, 

There's no scheme you can propose 
That will wake you half so surely 

As a hungry, velvet nose. 

No electric lights to puzzle 

And no gas to kill you dead, 
Just a good, old-fashioned lantern 

From the rafters overhead. 
But its sombre scintilations 

Seem to beckon you to stray 
To the waiting arms of Morpheus 

When your trotter's "put away," 
There's no ostermoor or feathers 

That a landlord ever saw 
That will give you half the comfort 

Of a bunk out in the straw. 




Page faelvt 



iMfJili-U ^' \J-J^iJ-ai/- 



There's no costly lavatory, 

There's no valet to be fed, 
Just a bucket of cold water 

And a rub-rag's all you need, 
You'll find a broken mirror 

On the boot-board over there 
And a bit of comb provided 

You've not parted with your hair, 
There'll be no manicurist 

And no barber within call. 
Neither will you need a doctor 

If you sleep out in a stall. 



X 



Oh ye weary men of millions 

With your multitude of cares, 
Don't you know the Silent Reaper 

Creeps upon you unawares? 
Get yourself a good game trotter. 

One of those that always tries. 
There's no nobler, truer comrade 

Underneath the vaulted skies. 
If you'd live long and be happy 

From early Spring till Fall 
Cut out care and cast your fortune 

With a trotter in a stall. 




Page i h i r t e tn 




The melancholy days are here 

I know it in- the chill 
That permeates the atmosphere 

Uj) here upon the hill. 



Tiie wind is sighing through the trees 
The leaves are turning hrown. 

But there's a surer sign than these, 
llie city folks have moved to town. 

Alas, it seems hut yesterday 

Since they arrived upon the scene. 

So fast the seasons fly away, 

So fast the Summers come between. 




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Far from the city's madding strife" 
Thc\- flidse this spot to settle down, 

And 1 can't see to save my hfe 

lust why our neighhors move to town. 

For who would give the worth-while joys 
That we accrue hei"e every day. 

F'or all the city's smoke and noise 

And all its gladsome, great, white wa}'. 

Down liere we walk ahout serene 

In perfect safety any time. 
Up there they hit you on the l)ean 

And rol) you of your only dime. 

^wn here a neighhor is a chaj) 
■^^^^ho every morning says Hello, 
Up there you may not know mayhap 
The man who rents the flat helow. 

The rohin and the lark have flown. 

The red sciuirrel's antics ape a clown, 
And Winter's coming, he it known, 

When citv folks jjo back to town. 



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Page J i/l e ^ n 



THE HOBBLES SAPIE WORE 

(Perhaps none of our great pacing mares were more 
popular than was Citation 2. -01^4. The ease and grace 
with which she wore her hol)bles, the contented manner 
in which she trailed an opponent, and the cyclonic speed 
with which she came at the finish are all impressed in- 
dellibly upon the memory of the writer and assisted 
largely in making "Sadie," as she was familiarly known, 
a public idol.) 

"Say, Kelly, you got any hobbles? 

Why, what are you laughing at, 
Do you think I can't drive a pacer 

Because I am big and fat, 
Do you think 'cause I use an auto 

That I've laid down the reins 
And lost all the bright red corpuscles 

That raced in my boyhood veins? 
Do you think 'cause I've stopped my drinking 

And grown a l)it more staid 
That I've forgotten the noblest horse 

The good Lord ever made? 
Yes, Kelly, I've got a pacer 

But she breaks when I try to race 
And I want a set of hobbles 

To keep her on a pace, 
She does not always need them 

And then again I'll swear 
To get her a set of hobbles 

Like Old Sadie used to wear. 



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\\)U imist reuieniher Sa'^' 

Who turned full -^any inck, 
}:ler real name was -Citation 

And we called her driver Dick. 
You saw the race, I'm certain, 

And must recall the mare, 
I can see her just as plainly 

As she was standing there : 
lirown and modest, not as handsome 

As this younger mare of mine, 
But with a wealth of something 

That made her almost divine; 
Say, my mare would look just like her 

When she turned around to score, 
If you'd sell me a set of hobhles 

Just like Old Sadie wore. 

"Did I buy her? No, I bred her; 
Remember the old roan mare 
That I drove when I was a-courting 

And raced at the county fair? 
Do you mind the year I rented 

The farm on Coval creek. 
The crops were most a failure 

And the family had all been sick ; 
I was mighty short of horses 

But the old mare pulled me through 
'Cause when the big ones faltered 

She just did the work of two, 
And when they puffed and wilted 

She seemed to thrive instead, 
A cross of Hal and Bashaw 

On a dash of thorobred. 

"My landlord, Old Man Skinner, 






Page teventeen 




"A DAPPER MAN IN GRAY " 

Wouldn't trust me for my i)lows 
Till I gave him a chattel mortgage 

On my horses and my cows. 
And Kelly, nothing hurt me so in twenty years 

,\s the name of that old roan mare 
When I saw it through the tears. 

The note fell due in August 
And we'd worked and saved and planned 

Till on July twenty-second 
\Ve had all the cash on hand. 

How 1 recall the morning 
For my wife had helped me start 

And had placed the eggs and hutter 
In the bottom of the cart. 

The whole world seemed so happy 
And my heart so light and free 





Page eighteen 



X 



As I thought ho\. •!, 

Would surely envy ' 

The thrush and lark and linnet 
Seemed to revel in their song 

And I hummed forgotten hallads 
As the old mare jogged along. 

"Well, when T got to the city 

1 had a drink or tw<j. 
And I soon forgot old Skinner 

And the errands I had to do. 
1 wandered about from l)ar to bar 

Till a l)and began to play 
And then I remembered the races 

Were going on that day. 
I hadn't seen a race in years 

But it sort o' brought me back 
And I dropped in l)ehin(l the music 

y\nd followed it to the track. 
The free-for-all was scoring 

And a dapper man in gray 
Was writing on a blackboard 

And then rubbing it away ; 
Talk about your school ma'ams 

That are handy with the chalk, 
lie was surely some professor. 

He could write and ml) and talk. 
A sporty looking fellow 

Who owned some racing stock 
Informed me he could write a book 

And that his name was Jock, 
He seemed to figure a little 

iVnd then he'd turn and say, 



Page n I n g t e r n 




We'' co: "^n, boys, and pick 'em out 
Before thc\ -^et away. 

"I had always kept my wallet 

Tied up with a buckskin string- 
In my right hand trousers pocket 

And had held on to the thing 
With a vice-like grasp to shield it 

From the semblance of all harm, 
When my si)orty friend politely 

Touched me on the other arm ; 
You see, he said, my brother owns 

The brown mare with the straps 
And another brother drives her, 

And I thought that you perhaps 
Would like to make a little money, 

For it's fixed for her to win, 
Those hobbled I)ir(ls will help her, 

She'll simply ramble in ; 
Better get down fifty plunkers 

'Fore my brother bets his wads, 
You'll never get another chance. 

He'll surely change the odds. 
Something seemed to tell me, Kelly, 

That the kid was on the square, 
So I peeled off fifty dollars 

And bet it on the mare, 
And as I passed it up to Jock, 

'Straight or place,' was all he said. 
And I answered, I want to bet it 

That Sadie comes ahead. 
JMy name's Joe, but he thought he knew me. 

For he said with half a sneer, 




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Page I w e n lii 








Si, I thought you wasn't .. -t. 

But I'm mighty gla-' you're here, 
Then he handed me out a Httle check, 

I rememher it just as well, 
'Cause 'twas Hke you get for your coat and hat 

When you stop at a h\g hotel. 
Mendota Cluh, it said at the top 

And heneath with a pencil hlue. 
His hired man had written 

Citation — Ten to Two. 



"They're off, and the murmuring crowd 
stilled 

As a chestnut flew to the rail, 
And the hopes of Sadie's friends were chilled 

As she was seen to trail ; 
Past the quarter and round the turn 

The flying pacers come, 
Their hoofheats echoing on the air 

Like the roll of a muffled drum ; 
Nearer and nearer, step hy step. 

Was there ever such a scene. 
The hlack coat leading hy a length 

The driver dressed in green ; 
Grim and determined are the men 

As Sphinx-like they sit and ride. 
Awaiting the finish they know full well 

Will be won or lost by a stride ; 
Through the spell-bound crowd 

Past the half in three 
Like spectres grim they stole, 

And round the turn, and up the stretch 
And past the three-quarter pole, 




Page I w e n I V - ti 



And or " Hie turn where the staliles ".'.i, 
Where the grot ns sit on the r?il, 

And still the li.. -tnut raced in front 
With the ])rown mare on her trail, 

I turned away in deep despair 
As I thought of old Skinner's note, 

And somehow a mist seemed to fill the air 
And a lump seemed to come in my throat. 

But hark — a roar like the surging sea 
y\rose from the crowded stand. 

'Twas the sweetest music I exer heard 
And I've listened to Sousa's hand; 

Through the frantic crowd I caught a glimpse 
With an eager anxious eye. 

Of a flash of green and a dash of gold 
As Dick i)ulled out to try. 

'Say, Kelly, you'\'e seen a ral)l)it dart 

With its ears flat on its l)ack. 
When life hung in the Ijalance 

With the hounds upon its track ; 
You've seen a turkey huzzard 

Seem to stand still in the sky. 
And then swoop down on your chickens 

With no trusty shot gun nigh. 
You've seen a graceful sail hoat 

Helpless like with empty sail. 
And you've seen it scudding homeward 

When it felt the welcome gale. 
Well, I don't know how it hai)pened. 

But I always will declare. 
He picked her up and placed her 

Beside the other mare. 



i-O' 



Page I w e n I y - 1 w 



^^st the flag man, 

l"a.-,L the draw gate, 
On into the human lan^ 

They were racing as two pacers 
Ne'er will race that track again, 

Each driver with the cunning 
That an artist can command 

Was working like a demon 
With a voice and whip and hand. 

And Richard, leaning over, 
Witli determined voice and clear 

Was shouting, Sadie, Sadie, Sadie, 
In her ear. 

"The crowd was fairly frantic, 

Every man was on his feet yelling madly 
Though no one was sure 

Which mare had won the heat, 
But I heard the judges whisper 

That the hobbled mare was tirst. 
And I suddenly decided to liquiate my thirst. 

Jock didn't seem to be quite so glad 
That I came to town that day, 

But he said as he counted out the roll, 
'Welcome as the flowers in May ;' 

He's a mighty jolly fellow 
And I know he meant it, too, 

When he said, *Si, come tomorrow, 
I'll save something good for you. 

"Well, old Skinner got his money 
And perhaps it saved his life. 
But I took about three hundred home 
And gave it ot my wife. 



Page t-wtnlii-thtet 



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I (i not intend to tell her 

But next dcy '^^ -s, says she, 

'Joe, there's one vV _ knocty problem 

That you must explain to me. 
You have always been respected. 

Have your senses taken flight, 
Who is this Sadie, Sadie, 

That you talk about all night?' 
She had me in a pocket 

And so I sat right down 
And told her all that happened 

The day I went to town. 
And we sort o' courted over 

And decided then and there 
To raise another Sadie 

From the old roan mare ; 
And we've got her, she's a pippin. 

Just as fat and smooth and round. 
And I've broken her to harness 

And she's absolutely sound. 

'But times have changed ; 

I bought the land old Skinner had 
And annexed another eighty 

That I purchased from my Dad; 
We have got a brand new auto, 

Just as slick as slick can be, 
But I wouldn't give that filly 

For all of them I ever see. 
It's got a clock upon it 

All fixed up for style and show 
That tells you just how far you've been 

And where you want to go, 



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Page twenty-four 




" WHERE THE BLOSSOMS DRIFT IN MAY " 

There is only one more contraption 

They could add to the con-sarned thing. 
That would tell me how much it was going to 
cost 

And what it would finally bring. 
I've worked a piece of highway, 

Till it's smooth and flat and straight, 
Just a half a mile from the big white elm 

To the maple at the gate, 
And, Kelly, you ought to see them step, 

That filly and that machine ; 
It brings me a vision of by-gone days 

And two coats of black and green. 

"The old roan mare has left us 

And we tearfully laid her away 
Out in the apple orchard 

Where the blossoms drift in May. 



Page lui t n t u -f i t 



summer evening?- 



And o' 

VVe stroll rhere. nie and ni' 
And thank the*6ri. ' fe^'od gifts 

For the better things of life. 
Some people think religion 

Is all a sort o' fudge, 
But somehow it brings us nearer 

To the (ireat Presiding Judge. 



'Yes, Kelly, I'm starting the filly 

Next week at the County Fair, 
My friends will be in the grandstand 

And I want you to be there ; 
I hardly think she'll make a break 

But I want to be sure and win 
With just a little more room for mine, 

No more of that rambling in ; 
So 1 came for a pair of Hobbles 

And, Kelly, 1 implore. 
Be sure and pick me out a set 

Just like Old Sadie wore." 



Page I H) e n I y - s i X 




A FRIEND 

A friend is a felk)w who knows your faults, 

Who sees all your ins and outs ; 
A chap whose loyalty never halts, 

And who never a moment doubts ; 
A pal who's with you wdiere'er you go 

From the start to the very end, 
Who lends a hand when you stub your toe— 

That's what I call a friend. 



Page I Ti) en I y - s e V e n' 



Se*L 



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"UHLAN" 1:58 



TO UHLAN 

(Jh Kin<4- dethroned, within whose placed eyes 
There lurks "The look of Eagles" as of old, 

I wonder if you do not oft surmise 

The place in human hearts you safely hold. 

I wonder if you do not look askance 

On many things that men and nations do, 

You who have never missed a chance 

To serve your master just the best you knew 

I wonder if your honest heart rebels 
At man's gross inhumanity to man ; 

I wonder if your indignation swells, 

Pray, answer me, ex-monarch, if you can. 



Po f e twenlff. eight 



\'.'^r'" you not piqued when --' '■^Divide 

The ti."' '>f your riva .ats were known? 

Did you not lo 7; to niea j stride for stride 
Ere you resigned tne glories of your throne? 

A throne indeed, the sea you love 

Will murmur melodies awhile you sleep 

And purple mountains far above 
Like sentries tall their vigils keep. 

Your lines are cast in pleasant ways 
And still your eyes confirm the truth, 

You're longing for those yesterdays 
And for an hour of speed and youth. 

You long for Proctor's guiding hand, 
You hark for Tanner's pleading voice. 

You loved the plaudits of the stand. 
Its tumult made your heart rejoice. 

But you have nobly done your best. 
Those flying feet have never swerved. 

Let no regrets disturb your rest. 

For Youth must always first be served. 

Alas our reign is all too brief, 

A few short days of strength and might. 
For Time steals on us like a thief, 

And then — it's night. 



Page I ai f n ly - n i n t 




THOSE OLD HIGH WHEELS 

Just a quaint, old-fashioned sulky, 

Standing in a dusty mow. 
But its form grotesque and bulky 

Charms my fancy even now. 
And I halt my explorations 

As this antique rig 1 scan 
To approve the rude creation 

Of some old-time artisan. 



i 



Timid pigeons coo and flutter 

As my warning steps intrude 
And the red-head on the gutter 

Drums a noisy interlude ; 
Full the ample mow and fragrant 

With the scent of new mown hay, 
So I find myself a vagrant 

Dreaming of a by-gone day. 




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Page t h i r ly 



Musing (here 1)eneat' , . ^.cs 

.''^''-lere the sunHglil: filters through, 
How ' t.-u?i^ <Tfemory mingles 

With the scenes that sulky knew. 
With the horses that once drew it, 

W ith the men it served so well, 
And the list as now T view it 

Seems to hold me in its spell. 

There is (ioldsmith Maid and Ivarus, 

And Maud S. and Billie Bair, 
And Splan and Orrin Hickok, 

^\'as there ever such a pair? 
There's St. Julian and Trinket, 

Palo Alto and Sunol, 
And a score of others answer 

As my fancy calls the roll. 

Then comes Woodruff, ]Mace and Murphy, 

Household names in by-gone days. 
Honest Charlie F"ord and Hopeful, 

What a loyal pair of grays, 
Dexter with his four white stockings, 

Smuggler with his pounds of weight, 
And with Charlie Marvin driving 

Next comes jogging through the gate. 

Lucy, George M. Patchen, Tackey, 

Red Cloud drawing Johnnie Wade, 
Now report to draw positions, 

What a record each one made. 
Arab, Maxie Cobb and Phallas, 

Clingstone, too, and Jay Eye See 
Are among the many others 

That come scoring down to me. 



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Page thirty -one 



Rowdy P'^'' and Mattie Hunter, 

Sleepy loqi and Buffalo r^irl, 
Johnston, Direct and HpI 'Pointer. 

Names that keep my brain awhirl, 
Tommy Lynn and Patsey Clinker, 

Silver Tail and Daisy D. 
Speers, Longfellow Whip and Williams, 

Billie Ham and Lottie P. 

Badger Girl, Cozette, Observer, 

I was but a youngster then. 
But I have a fond remembrance 

Of old Big Soap and Lew Glenn, 
Benson, Chandler, Grimes and Curry, 

All have heard the final call. 
And McHenry, cool and crafty. 

Doubtless wizard of them all. 

Gone, alas, those steeds and drivers, 

But I know they'll reconvene 
Up there by the placid waters, 

In the pastures evergreen, 
And Fm thankful for the vision 

That is brought to me so oft 
By that quaint old high wheel sulky 

Standing in the stable loft. 




Page t h i r I y - 1 TD o 




E. F. GEERS 

Like some gnarled oak that throug-h the tempests lasts 

And grows more sturdy with those trying blasts 
So you have grown, undaunted, unapproachable, alone. 

Temptation knocks unheeded at your door 
And hurries on to fields that promise more; 

Misfortune halts you, but no factor stays 
The even tenor of your winning ways. 

Rich in the things that make a man. 
May you live on like that old oak apace 

Far into and beyond the span 
That marks our cradle and our resting place. 

Oh, cunning hand and magic name, 



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Page ( hi riy -I h r ee 



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Oh, shades c old . " Pointer and the rest, 

No pair has ever yet been known to lanie 
That stir the same emotions in my breast, 

And so when Spring time birds come flocking back 
To haunts and homes they loved in other years 

We come to loiter at the trotting track 
And worship at the shrine of "Massa Geers." 

May time and tide that do not wait 
Deal kindly with us here below. 

But may they please just hesitate, 
''Doggone it," Pop, we love you so. 




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Page thirly-fouT 



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A FRONT WHEEL IS MISSING 

THAT DEMOCRAT WAGON OF DAD'S 

I found it today half hidden away 

In a tangle of brush and of weeds, 
Not far from the spot where the children play 

And the path to the old orchard leads ; 
And oh, what a myriad of memories abide 

Of those long-ago lassies and lads 
That gathered around and just begged for a ride 

In that democrat wagon of Dad's. 

A front wheel is missing, the dashboard is bent. 

The birds have built nests 'neath the seat ; 
The leather upholstering is tattered and rent, 

Its passing is almost complete ; 
And yet as I view it, it lightens my load 

And I'm back once again as a lad 
When bronzed and barefooted I trudged down the 
road 

For a ride in that wagon with Dad, 



f 



Page ( f) i r I u - / 1 V e 



No varnish adorns u, the sun and the shine 

Have vanquished the paint it once knew ; 
An ehn hovers o'er it, a friendly old vine 

Strives to hide its defects from my view ; 
But I can't be denied, so I brush them aside 

While I think of the fun that I've had 
As I climbed to his side on that seat for a ride 

In that Democrat wagon with Dad. 

For years it was given the choicest abode 

Till an auto appeared on the scene, 
And then the old wagon was lost to the road 

Crowded out by a gaudy machine ; 
The tool house now claimed it and answered its needs 

Till a tractor came puffing along. 
And then it was left to repose in the weeds, 

Lulled to sleep by the meadow lark's song. 

How oft in the days that have taken to flight 

Have I pictured those scenes o'er and o'er, 
Of Father and Mother returning at night 

And the goodies the old wagon bore ; 
There were bushels of buckwheat and oysters and 
things 

That made a boy's heart superglad, 
And so I rejoice that my memory clings 

To that democrat wagon and Dad. 

On Sunday it took us to worship and prayer 
In the white meeting house on the hill, 

Forgotten the sermons we listened to there 
But the wagon remains with us still. 



^ 



^-O*^" 



Page t h i 1 1]) ■ 3 i X 




THE WHITE MEETING HOUSE ON THE HILL 



And then in the Autumn, the season's work o'er, 

We drove to the fair every day. 
And how I would tease Dad and clamor for more 

If we raced just a bit on the way. 



For Father contended a man wasn't bad 

Just because he loved horses a lot ; 
I've followed his pretext and so from a lad 

I have worshipped a horse that could trot ; 
I've a boy of my own that can drive a big car 

But I've watched him and know it is true, 
He don't get the pleasure, as fast as they are. 

That his Dad and his Grandfather knew. 



p4i g e thirlu-iioifl 



i i 



And so as I view it my boyhood returns 

And a mist sort o' comes to my eyes ; 
I'll frankly confess that my heart fairly yearns 

For those far-away days that I prize, 
The neighbors, the schoolhouse, the village and all 

For the country I loved as a lad. 
But the happiest moments that I can recall 

Were spent in that wagon with Had. 

We are told that when life with its trouble and fuss 

Shall end and our journey is o'er, 
A palid old boatman is waiting for us 

With a barque for a far-away shore, 
Our finish is plain and we can not remain, 

But I'd welcome the change and be glad, 
If I could be sure I would nestle secure 

In that Democrat W^igon with Had. 



Page I hi riv- elgh 




"A SILENCE REIGNS UPON THE HILL" 

AWAY 

The shades are down across the way, 

Unspotted lies the snow and still, 
The giant oaks their vigils keep, 

A silence reigns upon the hill ; 
We look away across the lawn 

Where merry parties once held sway, 
But all the house is dark and lone. 

The shades are down across the way. 

We miss the children's noisy play, 

They do not care the hill to climb 
As once they did when they could stay 

At Grandma's until supper time; 
The wind seems sighing since they left, 

The beagles have a mournful bey. 
In fact, the whole blufY seems bereft. 

The shades are down across the way. 



Page I h i r I ij - n I n e 






THE OLD ELM AT ITS BACK 

THE SECRETARY MAN 

Dear Patron of the "Sport of Kings," 

Did it ever occur to you 
That a real live secretary 

Has a few odd jobs to do? 
Did you ever stop to ponder 

How much time is all his own 
From the day his dates are published 

Till his deficit is shown? 
Did you ever chance to chide him 

'Cause he overlooked your name 
For a complimentary ticket? 

Don't you think he was to blame? 
Did he give your groom the choicest stall 

There was upon the track 



Si/ 



Page /orlV 



Close to the well and paddock 

With the old elm at its back? 
Did he have the "chamber" bedded? 

Did he have a room for you 
Just outside the track enclosure 

That was cool and fresh and new? 
Could he tell the name and breeding- 

Of the horse in every stall ? 
Did he know how fast the pacers 




/ 




THE BOYS WHO ROLL THE BANDAGE 

Would go in the free-for-all ? 
Did the bookies get your money? 

'Twas the secretary's fault, 
He should have had the judges 

Very promptly call a halt 
When your ticket wasn't winning, 

But of course he didn't know 
When you bet your last two dollars 

That your pacer couldn't show. 



/^ 



Page / r I u ■ n e 



Did he sell box four to Smithy? 

Did he sell box three to Hall? 
He should surely have known better 

Why their wives don't speak at all. 
Was he right there with the money 

When your trotter's race was o'er? 
Was his track hard enough for the sound ones 

And soft enough for the sore? 
Was your laundry ticket settled? 

l^id you get an extra pass .■' 
Did you win a heat in 'leven 

And stay in the twenty class ? 
Did he charge your entrance money? 

Did he have a big boquet 
Waiting for you at the station 

On the day you shipped away? 
Were the winners always happy 

And the losers never sore? 
Did he work full twenty hours 

And more of the twenty-four? 
If he did you've found the fellow 

Who's entitled to the crown. 
For he's picked up the burden 

Where we all have thrown it down, 
And I add my humble tribute 

To that secretary's skill, 

He's the man behind the cannon, 

He's the flour in the mill ; 
So I drink in silent homage 

To the men who boost the game, 
To the boys who roll the bandage 

And the chap who rides to fame, 



Page / o r I ])- 1 H) n 



s 



To the l^reeiler .-ind the trainer 
And to all the horseman clan, 

But I drain my cup the deepest 
To the secretary man. 



■'/ 




W 



Page / o r ty - 1 h r e'e 




A HAVEN OF REST WHEN THE WINTER WINDS BLOW 

REFLECTIONS OF A ROVER 

The old city bastile — How plain it appears 

As I view it again through the mist of the years ; 
Though rivers and mountains and plains intervene 

I see it again as on memory's screen ; 
How many a time in the days that have ])assed 

It has sheltered us well from the pitiless blast, 
And its old battered walls seemed a kingly abode 

When its doors swung ajar for the knights of the 
road. 
I see them again, though unbidden I rove. 

The fellows who camped 'round the old cannon 
stove. 
There was Paddy the lifer, whose merry old flute 

Harbored music no artist would dare to refute ; 
The bats on the rafters and rats on the floor 

Were charmed by the strains of his Rory O'Moore, 




Page forty .fo u r 



Anu when Paddy's overture eclioed away 

A Thespian l)old rendered i)art of a play; 
'Twas said by his friends that he promised in youth 

To rival a Mansfield, or Barrett or Booth; 
There was Tommy the toper, and Rattle Trap Jack, 

The latter a title he gained on the track ; 
There were men of all nations and men of all creeds 

Who listened while others recounted their deeds ; 
Just a care-free collection of innocent chaps 

With the wanderlust habit prevailing perhaps. 
And a thirst unrelentingly begging each morn 

For the poison that lurks in the heart of the corn. 
No costly contraptions the old bastile knew. 

But a haven of rest when the \\'inter winds blew; 
So I'm longing tonight to hit the back trail 

And slumber again in the old city jail ; 
It's welcome and warmth brought a vision of home 

And I cannot forget it where ever I roam. 
You may laugh, if you like, sir, but what is the use 

To chide me for loving: the old calaboose. 



Pagt /ptl^-/iO« 




JOE WAS TEN TO A DAY 



THE CHESTNUT HORSE AND JOE 

"Just a chestnut liorse." the neigh1)ors said. 

As they saw him led away, 
And they marveled much at the tears I shed 

And the anguish I felt that day. 
For that chestnut horse had a place in my heart 

Where the angels I worship dwell, 
And he seemed of my very life a part, 

So this is the tale T tell. 



(•) 



Joe was ten to a day when he found the mare 
With the new born foal at her side. 

While with a proud and zealous air 

She watched the youngster's ambling stride, 



Page J rt u - i i X 



And Joe with nimble feet and bare 

Dashed down the garden path in leaps 

To bring me tidings of my favorite mare 
And ask me if the colt was his "for keeps." 

"Oh, Dad, it's a wonderful foal," he said, 

"With eyes like the sky above, 
And a queer white mark in its little head 

Like the stars in the flag we love. 
You'll let me name him now, of course. 

Since you've given him all to me, 
I'm going to make him a fighting horse 

And call him My Liberty." 

Ah, little soldier with sun-kissed hair, 

Your boyhood dreams came true, 
Those two gold stars in the window there 

Mean the chestnut horse and you. 
I helped Joe break him to drive and ride 

And they won at the County Show, 
While all the neighbors far and wide 

Knew the chestnut horse and Joe. 

The happy years that came between 

Brought never a thought of fate 
Till the lad at last had reached eighteen 

And the horse was counted eight ; 
And then the call to the colors came 

And my boy was first to go, 
But the chestnut horse never seemed the same 

After saying good-bye to Joe. 



Page forty-ieven 



A neighbor's boy was mustered in. 

He had been Joe's dearest chum ; 
They promised to stick through thick and thin 

And to write if harm should come. 
I hitched the chestnut up alone 

And took the boys to the train, 
.Somehow the skies had darker grown, 

And from the clouds the tear drops came. 
While the precious moments flew away 

Joe whispered half in fun, 
"Send J.iberty over to me some day 

To help me catch a Hun. 

"You know I'll love him where'er I am, 

And the world is not so wide; 
Just sell him some day to Uncle Sam 

And we'll meet on the other side." 
The train passed on with its clanging bell, 

And the light of my life went too ; 
It seemed, alas, like some awful knell 

As it disappeared from view. 

The season wearily wore away 

With its hopes and doubts and fears, 
Joe's face before me day by day 

And his words in my aching ears. 
So I sold the horse of my joy and pride 

To a captain I met by chance. 
To do his bit on the "Other Side" 

With the khaki boys in France. 



Page f o r t y - t i g h t 



Ah, little wonder the world stood still 

And my tears in abundance fell 
As the chestnut turned at the top of the hill 

And whinnied a last farewell. 
The letters that came were full of cheer 

And one held a poppy bloom, 
The end of the war seemed very near 

And the boys would be with us soon. 

The Yanks were hot on the Boche's track, 

They were beating- the hated Huns; 
And Pershing was pushing them steadily back 

In s])ite of their gas and guns ; 
And then — a letter from Joe's best friend, 

"Sir, I promised to let you know, 
They fought together to the end, 

The chestnut horse and joe." 
"Don't grieve," it said, "for the cause is won. 

And they really have not died, 
Their glorious lives have just begun — 

They have met on the Other Side." 

Just a chestnut horse and a boy so fair. 

Two forms that M'ere stark and cold. 
But the searchers paused in silent prayer 

For the stars that had turned to gold. 
And so each year as the Spring comes 'round, 

I shall think of the poppies that blow 
And nod their heads o'er the grassy mound 

Of the Chestnut Horse and Joe. 



Page forty. nine 




.^BSStiraw*;; 



A HAND SHAKE AND HOW DO YOU DO 



THE OLD-TIME FAIR 

Oh Autumn, bring me back the days 

I dreamed the dreams of a boy. 
Before I had learned the world and its ways 

And life was one round of joy ; 
Bring me a vision of old-time friends, 

A hand shake and How-do-ye-do, 
One hour now could make amends 

For the pain of a whole life through ; 
Bring me those moments free from care 

And the patter of feet at the score; 
Bring me one day of the old-time fair, 

I will never ask for more; 



Page fifty 



Bring me a tune from the old-time band, 

A glimpse of the old-time course, 
Bring the applause of the crowded stand 

As it cheers for the winning horse; 
Bring me the chicken dinners rare, 

Bring all of these, I say; 
Revive, O Autumn, your old-time fair, 

And bring me one yesterday. 




Page fiftu-one 




CHARLES E. DEAN 

I would not count that he alone 

Has won profound success 
Because a monumental stone 

Proclaims his mightiness ; 
I would not call that fellow great 

Because his lands are wide 
And potentates from every state 

Come flocking to his side ; 
Though bonds may fill his ample vaults 

And wealth be everywhere 
I could not overlook his faults 

If he had l)een unfair. 



Page J i f t y - I w I 



But if he builds a little cot 

With roses here and there, 
If children come to bless his lot 

With joy beyond compare. 
If pets come trooping to his call, 

If, by his ways serene, 
Me leads a pacer from her stall 

And makes of her a (jueen ; 
If he has brought to this old sphere 

A wealth of pleasure, I'll confess 
He's learned the art of living here 

And earned his title to success. 
Then would I call him truly great 

For surely he has more than wealth 
Whose friends from sea to sea await 

The anxious tidings of his health. 
For lands and bonds and wealth take wings 

But honest hands and cheery smile 
We find are the essential things 

That go to make this life worth while. 




Page flflu-lh re 



CASEY JONES 

(A true story in verse with apologies.) 

Listen, my fellows, and you shall get 
A tale of the ride of Splint Barnett. 

'Twas the tenth of October in Nineteen 'leven 
And few of us all this side of Heaven 

Will witness a show like the one we saw 

Take place on the banks of the raging Kaw. 

The American Royal show was on 

And from far and near the fans had come 
To see Missouri, proud and great. 

Win blues from every other state. 
And all the poultry and sheep and swine. 

The mule maligned and the loving kine 
Had garnered the honor and glory too 

That came from winning the Royal blue. 
The shades of night closed o'er the scene 

And found all tranquil and serene ; 
But hark — the bugle calls, and lo, 

The gate swings wide for the night horse show. 

The building from door to dome is filled 

But the surging crowd at last is stilled 
And all the boxes seem to be 

So filled with the flower of chivalry 
That old-time Romans in their might 

Would have envied the Royal on this night. 
A gaited class is in the ring. 

All trying for that subtle thing called fame 



Page J if ty -fo u t 



To which we all aspire, 

Who ever rise from out the mire. 
And well they might be proud to win, 

For every rider of renown 
From Old Kentucky's rippling rills 

To Old Missouri's Ozark hills 
Has gathered there in K. C. town. 

The cheers for each are long and loud 
As they dash in splendor I)efore the crowtl, 

But all are lost in a mighty roar 
As a chestnut comes racking through the door, 

And sitting astride his famous pet 
Is the sphinx-like form of "Splint" Barnett. 

They walked, and walked they all so fine 

One scarcely could tell the best in line; 
They trotted, and the Barnett mount 

Just seemed to put them all to rout ; 
They racked, and how "Splint's" horse could whiz! 

It looked as though the blue was his ; 
They cantered, and all but Barnett's steed 

Responded promptly on either lead. 
Line up. line up, and they did their best 

To pose each horse for the final test. 
"What horse is this with rack so fine," 

Asked the judge of "vSplint" as they wheeled in 
line, 
"Why, why," he answered in accents bold, 

"He's just a baby, a four-year-old. 
Fact is, Mr. Judge, he's half-past three, 

I knows, 'cause they raised him close to me. 
Yes, Mr. Judge, he's oil in the can. 

He's named for a famous railroad man; 



Page jifiU-iiot 



He's not in a class with those other l:)ones, 

This horse, Mr. Judge, is Casey Jones." 
But "Sphnt" felt shaky in the knees 

When the judge said, "Let him canter, please." 
"Why, why, Mr. Judge, he cantered before. 

You surely don't need to see him more ; 
I lets him canter most every day, 

You must have been looking the other way." 
"Well, well," said the judge, "why all this fuss, 

He's got to canter here, for us; 
And if he don't, you know it's true 

He hasn't a chance to win the blue." 

So "Splint" leaned over the chestnut's neck 

And promised him many a half a peck ; 
He coaxed and threatened and whipped and spurred 

But Casey racked on like a flying bird. 
And when the judges waved him in 

Our hero murnuuTd with some chagrin, 
"Casey Jones, just half-past three. 

You've had your last square meal with me; 
No pesterin' houn' dog like you are 

Can ever ride in my old freight car." 
And John Hook whispered on his right, 

" 'Splint,' his memory's mighty bad tonight." 
And Cohen and Moores and Woods and Rass 

Still chide him gently as they pass. 

And so the name of Casey Jones 

Has been saved from the list of the world's un- 
knowns. 
And horsemen each year as the equines show 

Will recount his deeds in the twilight's glow. 
And dream of the past as the story they tell 

Of a horse who did all but canter well. 



Page ////ii-j/'jt 




■a 



BACK HOME 

Back Home! Ah, wondrous words are those 

That every weary wanderer knows, 
For cast al)out where'er we may 

We plan to go back home some day ; 
Across the miles that intervene 

The prairies seem a bit more green, 
The skies still seem a bit more blue 

And old-time friends a bit more true 
Back Home. 

Back home a chill is in the air. 

But surely hearts are warmer there ; 
The flowers that come where snowdrifts lie 

Will be the sweeter bye-and-bye ; 
The morn may be a trifle gray 

But breezes blow the clouds away, 
And sunshine will come smiling through 

As if to help to welcoiue you 
Back Home. 



Page j i Ifu -seven 



Back home I hope the neighbors say 

They miss me since I've been away; 
There's many that can take my place 

And fill it with a kindlier grace; 
There's many that can do my tasks, 

And yet I hope somebody asks 
Of someone that they chance to see 

Just when they are expecting me 
Back Home. 

Back Home — but one must go away 

To grasp the thoughts those words convey, 
For when you wander 'round the land 

You long to grasp an old friend's hand; 
You long to see that old-time smile, 
Awaiting for him all the while, 
To say, in that familiar voice, 

"Old Pal, your friends will all rejoice 
That vou're Back Home." 




Page / i/lv-e i g h 



REVERIES 

(In California) 

llie ])apers say it's snowint^- 

I'ar across the (ii'eat Divide, 
And I feel 1 should he .U'oiiii; 

1 lack to take one more sleii^h ride ; 
Sun and flowers all together 

I'll agree are mighty hue, 
But 1 miss the Winter weather 

That helongs to Christmas time. 

There seems a l)it of friction 

Twixt this date and nature's laws, 
And it's difficult to picture 

Summer things with Santa Claus ; 
I opine it's more in keeping 

When he comes the same old way. 
With his hells and antlered reindeer 

And the same old battered sleigh. 

Of course they try to tell us 

Santa has a limousine, 
But 'twould spoil my Merry Christmas 

If it smelled of gasoline; 
And when his style is altered 

It will multiply my joys 
To see a pair of trotters 

Distributing the toys. 



Page /i/t}f-nine 



There was something sort o' bracing' 

In the days I used to know, 
.\nd it kept your blood a-racing 

When 'twas twenty-six below ; 
It was then we banked the stable 

And thawed out the kitchen pump 
While a thousand other duties 

Kept us always on the jump. 




I can picture now the kitchen 

Where my Mother baked the cakes, 
And stuffed the bags with sausage 

Like no city butcher makes, 
And when Dad came to breakfast 

He would slap his hands and say, 
"W^ell, it snowed a good ten inches. 

We will use the bobs today." 



Page s ix t u 



Wc would (ill the box up deeply 

With a wealth of golden straw ; 
A modern carriage heater 

Was a thing" we never saw ; 
But a pair of downy blankets 

And a "InifTalo" or two 
Afforded more real comfort 

Than an auto ever knew. 

Sometimes when the winds were blowing" 

And the cold was most intense, 
It just kept on a-snowing 

J ill 'twas higher than the fence; 
We'd cross the fields and shovel 

Until we reached the town, 
But oh, I loved the Winter 

When we got the bobsleds down. 

Strange they always took me shopj^ng 

Until Christmas time was near. 
Then they held wderd consultations 

Meant for no small boy to hear. 
And I noticed one large closet 

Where I always played before 
Was kept securely fastened 

And no key was in the door. 

And then on Christmas evening, 
When the church w^as all aglow% 

And a million tiny diamonds 
Seemed to sparkle in the snow, 



Page si X (9 -0 ne 



All the niyster}' was ended, 
For the gifts upon the tree 

^Vere the contents of that closet 
That the bobsled brouc^ht to me. 

Dear old bobsled, staunch and sturdy, 

Helpmeet of the pioneers. 
Memory like a sacred halo 

Hovers o'er you through the years ; 
Some day when the snow is falling 

Thick on village church and store, 
Hope I hear some l)oy's dad calling, 

"Get the bobsleds down" once more. 




Page t ix t u - Im 



WHEN SHE WAS HERE 

When she was here, the one I loved and lost, 
Joy reigned supreme, I counted not the cost ; 
The happy years that sped away 
Were as but weeks. 
The weeks as but a day. 
The house that once her presence filled 
Re-echoes not the voice that's stilled ; 
Her sacred room when I intrude 
But greets me with its solitude ; 
I worship for her own dear sake 
The homey things she used to make 
When she was here. 

When she was here no favor I could ask 
Would seem to her in any way a task ; 
A word, a smile, a fond caress 
A\'^ould prompt me to a new success ; 
The flowers that she loved and reared 
Have for the moment disappeared 
But to return each Spring to grace 
The verdure of her resting place ; 
The birds will nest where oft before 
She watched them from the open door, 
While half expectant in his stall 
A trotter listens for her call, 
And pets still wistfully await 
The step they welcomed at the gate 
When she was here. 



Page s i X I y - I h r e c 



AVhen she was here the magic of her hand 
Was something I could never understand. 
The touch that soothed my aching brow 
I'll feel no more, and yet somehow 
There shines about me all the while 
The radiance of that loved one's smile. 
I can not see her but I feel 
Her queenly presence as I kneel 
And thank the gracious Lord divine 
For that dear helpmate that was mine ; 
And so with His aid I will be 
The man that she would make of me 
If she were here. 



W 11 



Page s i X t u .f o u r 




THE ROAD TO EVERYWHERE 

oil little brown road that winds away 

And is lost to sight in the twilight gray, 

Just where would you guide my steps and why, 

If I your dusty trail should try? 

If I should impose my trust in you 

Would you take me to haunts that my childhood knew 

Or would you guide me safe and well 

To that distant land where the loved ones dwell? 

Pray, tell me more of your route and fare. 

Oh little brown road to everywhere. 

Oh little brown road would you guide my feet 

To the land wdiere the sky and the mountains meet, 

Or would you bring me safe and fast 

To the fields of grain and the prairies vast ; 

Perhaps your path leads to the shore 

Where your trail is lost in the billow's roar, 

But whether it's ocean or mountain or plain, 

I beg you to take me home again. 

For all of the wealth of the world is there, 

Oh little brown road to everywhere. 



VJ 



Page s i X t}/ ■/ IV t 



t' 



THE PICTURES ON THE WALL 

I've a sacred little sanctum 

Tn a room that's all unkept ; 
There is dust upon the mantle 

And the floor is (piite unswept. 
But I lock myself at evening 

In its solitude and hide 
Where the walls are hung- with pictures 

That to me are sanctified. 

There I lose the cares that cluster 

'Round the prol)lenis of the day, 
As I tilt my chair to visit 

With the friends so far away ; 
And they seem to smile and beckon 

As I greet them once again 
For a reminiscent hour 

In the silence of my den. 

Saddles hang- in yonder corner. 

Boots are standing- by the door, 
Over there a cap and jacket 

That I don't use any more ; 
Cups and trophies on the table. 

Whips and ribbons, bits and shoes. 
And a funny old-time muzzle 

That the trainer now taboos. 



Page s i X I y - 3 i X 




Page tlxlu -Seven 



There's a host of old-time faces 

Beaming over famous steeds, 
While the ever ready Year Book 

Tells the story of their deeds ; 
But tonight a dozen new ones 

Greet me when my work is done, 
'Tis the Calendar of Chanii)ions 

For Nineteen Twenty-one. 

Peter Manning, King of Trotters, 

Monarch of the tribe alone, 
I can almost hear the footsteps 

That have borne you to the throne; 
But I turn the pages over 

And I wonder if you'll reign 
When another year is ended 

And my pictures come again. 

How do ordinary mortals 

Look to you from up above, 
Fleet, determined, flying trotter, 

Product of the state I love. 
Fame is all too transitory 

As is glory and renown, 
Be ye watchful else your master 

Guides another to the crown. 

Then a striking picture greets me 

As I turn the pages o'er 
Of another Murphy trotter 

That is knockino- at the door ; 



Page s i X I y e i g h I 




Page i I X I u - n i fi e 



He stands at marked attention 
And the thing at which he stares 

Away off in the distance 

Is the crown that Alanning; wears. 



\ 



There is not a man among us 

If we'd all admit the truth, 
But would turn the clock's hands backward 

To the joyous days of youth ; 
Silently we pass the milestones 

And although we squirm and writhe 
We can't escape the notice 

Of the "Old Man with the Scythe." 

Thus I marvel, gentle reader. 

As I turn another page 
To Ed Allen and his pacer 

Bettered like the wine by age. 
Ponce de Leon's famous fountain 

With its praises widely sung 
Cannot equal Indiana 

When it comes to keeping young. 

I would camp in Cambridge City 

If the Scythe Man would agree 
To pass me by unnoticed 

Just as he has Single G. 
Yes, I'd take my den and pictures 

To that charming Hoosier spot 
If old age would overlook me 

Like the Horse that time forgot. 



Page seventy 



Then I spend a happy hour 

With McDonald, Cox and Ray, 
Say Hello to Sandy Taylor, 

Hear what Richard has to say ; 
Have a chat with old friend Erwin, 

Look at Chase Dean's flying steed, 
And I find another evening 

Has passed pleasantly indeed. 

All the family have retired, 

On the hearth the eml^ers glow, 
As I sit alone and visit 

With the "Boys" I used to know ; 
And I find unbounded comfort 

When the dusk of evening falls, 
Just to watch the friends and horses 

In the pictures on the walls. 




Page ievenl]/-one 



/■ 




WHERE THEY STEP TO BEAT THE BAND 



HOW THE DOCTOR LOST AND WON 

Have you ever heard the story 
Of the man who lost but won? 

Well, listen, fellow horsemen. 
And I'll tell vou how 'twas done. 



Back there in the prairie country 

Where the corn grows thick and tall, 
And where nearly every village 

Has a county fair each Fall, 
There's a nifty little race track 

Where they step to beat the band. 
And a judge who knows his business 

Issues orders from the stand. 



Page teventy-two 



Every year the horsey fellows 

From the city by the lake, 
Enter for a short vacation 

And their business cares forsake; 
One, a care-free, jolly dentist 

Always makes the little town, 
(iolden Boy he calls his pacer. 

And his name is Doctor Brown. 

Now among- the other drivers 

Was a chap that we'll call Black, 
Though the name was very different 

That they called him on the track ; 
And he also had a pacer. 

Quite a fast one, rumor ran, 
And below the Doctor's entry 

Was Black's filly, Mary Ann. 

Wednesday brought a crowd tremendous, 

Hosts of every creed and kind. 
Who intently viewed the pumpkins 

With the races most in mind. 
Seven pacers faced the starter 

In the slow class of the day. 
All were on their good behavior 

And Vv^ere quickly on their way. 

It was everybody's contest 

Till they reached the distance stand 
Then Black tapped the flying filly 

And she quickly took connnand ; 



Page 3event])-three 



Doctor Brown was riding easy, 

Didn't seem to care a whit, 
Golden Boy had finished second 

And was plainly "on the hit." 

Second heat and every starter 

Finished in the self-same })lace, 
Some declared it good as over, 

Mary .Ann would win the race. 
Then a dark horse called Idie Joker 

Beat them in a furious drive, 
Doctor Brown still "huggv riding" 

While Black's mare was number tive. 

Foiu-th heat, and the Doctor's entry 

Quickly grabbed the inner rail. 
Black, content to take it easy. 

Coaxed his little mare to trail ; 
Then the fifth and at its finish 

Golden Boy had won two heats, 
And the crowd now all excited 

Stretched and settled in their seats. 

Brown and Black who knew the rule-book 

Thought no purse could compensate 
For the mark they'd get l)y winning 

So they planned "on being late.'' 
They alone came out to finish 

And it readily was seen 
That each driver had decided 

That he'd keep his pacer "green." 



Page sevenlv/ouf 



Just three times they scored demurely 

In a mild, half-hearted way; 
When the judge addressed the drivers, 

This is Avhat he had to say : 
Mr. Black, you are a fellow 

That I thought was on the square, 
I'm not pleased, I can assure vou. 

With the way you drive your mare ; 
Now you take the Doctor's gelding 

And I warn you. ?\Ir. Black, 
It will be your last appearance 

If you ever once kxjk back. 

Doctor Brown, the judge continued, 

You for years have graced this course, 
And no one could quite convince me 

That you'd really pull a horse ; 
Yet you seem to fear the record 

And I've hit upon a plan 

That i)erhaps will save your bacon, 

You will drive Black's Mary Ann ; 
Now you land her here a winner 

Or your patrons by the lake 
Will find you in your office 

When their teeth begin to ache. 

"Do you think he really means it," 
And Brown's face was ashy white 

As he whispered to the Doctor 
Who was turning on the right. 

And the Doctor answered, "Does he? 
Say, I've seen that judge before, 



Page $« oe n li ■/ iv e 



I'm not lakiny any chances, 

He'll do all he said and more." 

Neck and neck they reached the quarter. 

Whips were popping thick and fast, 
On into the stretch they strugg-led, 

Just a question which could last, 
Past the half they still were i)acing 

Like two demons hitched to pole. 
While the drivers' frantic efforts 

Proved each hoped to Avin the goal. 
Side by side the pacers staggered, 

Horse by horse and man l)y man. 
But the Doctor won by inches 

With the filly Mary Ann. 

So the chaps that paid their money 

For admission at the gate. 
All agreed it was a corker. 

That the race was simply great ; 
Black's bay mare had won the battle. 

Golden Boy had done his best. 
And a sort of satisfaction 

Hovered 'neath each driver's vest. 

No reward is so enduring 

As the sense of duty done, 
It eclipses all the records 

And the money that you've won ; 
Doctor Brown still races horses 

But he wins when e'er he can. 
For he don't forget the lesson 

That he learned with Marv Ann. 



Page ie\>^n ty .ilx 



Down the street the judge still muses 

In his spacious dry-goods store, 
Where he issues daily orders 

To a dozen clerks or more ; 
And he still soliloquizes 

That the rules are not too dense 
To be strictly comprehended 

1 1' they're mixed with common sense. 



There's a moral to the story, 

If you'd keep the horse game square, 

Drive your trotter or your pacer 
As the Doctor drove Black's mare. 



Page « ( t)« n ^4/ - j c V « n 




THE COUNTRY STORE 

Plainly mirrored in my memory 

Are the scenes my boyhood knew, 
And I brush away the teardrops 

Just to get a better view 
Of the churchyard and the schoolhouse 

Which I picture o'er and o'er, 
But I cherish most the glimpses 

Of that old-time country store. 

There it was we used to gather 

When the chores were done at night, 

Every topic from the weather 
To the war was settled right. 



Page tevenly.eighl 



:r-i0!5S-5 



1\ 



And the leaders of the nation 
For a hundred years or more 

Could ha\e i^ained some information 
At that old-time country store. 

On the left side were the groceries 

And soap and tinware brig-ht. 
\\'hile the calicoes and ginghams 

^\'ere i)iled up on the right ; 
In the hack the sN-ruj) l)arre]s 

And the apple cider kegs 
Were flanked with jars of Initter 

And baskets filled with eggs. 

Uncle Sam had graced the structure 

With his ])resence, so to speak, 
And we used to mail a letter 

Or receive one every week ; 
But the evenings when the fellers 

\\'as silent like and dumb. 
Was \\hen the mail man whis])ere(l, 

"Boys, the trottin' paper's come." 

Oh the thrills that went a-kiting 

Up my spine and down my back 
As I listened to the tidings 

( )f the doings on the track. 
Just how Nancy Hanks had triumphed, 

How the "Pointer Hoss" had won, 
Held us all in wrapt attention 

A\'hen the trottin' papers come. 





''f!~^ 



How .\xtel had broke the record 

And how Allerton had raced, 
Of the miles that John R. Gentry, 

Robert J- and Patchen Paced, 
National issues were forgotten 

\\'hen young Online paced in four 
And we read the trottin' papers 

In the old-time country store. 



Little wonder that Pm yearning 
Though I roam in distant lands. 

For I find my fancies turning- 
Back to where the old store stands ; 

Once again I tie my chestnut 
To the gnawed and whittled rail. 

Once again I ask the postman, 
Please to bring me out my mail. 

Once again I greet my schoolmates, 

Once again I grope my way 
Up the creaking wooden stairway 

\Miere the old band used to play ; 
All is quiet like and silent 

And I lift the laggard latch 
Just to catch a strain of nuisic 

That no modern band can match. 

Ah, the old days all have vanished, 
I would be a stranger there, 

I would find an automobile 

Standing where I tied my mare. 




Page eighty 



! 



And I'd find the old store vacant 
And the band dispersed and gone, 

Leaving- like the birds of Summer, 
Just a memory of their song. 

Now I read al)out the racers 

In a most o1)trusive \vav, 
How the pacers beat two minutes 

Almost any Autumn dav, 
But I'd give my earthly holdings 

Just to live those years once more 
When we read the trottin' papers 

In that quaint old country store. 




Page e i g h I ]) - o n e 





BUOiJ DUBLE 



REWARD 

When a trotter is nearini>- the end of a race 

And strugi^les along in the lead, 
When his driver endeavors to quicken his pace 

To win from some threatening steed, 
I am sure there is nothing that prompts him to try 

One last final effort to land 
And capture the heat from the one rushing by 

Like the frenzied a])plause from the stand. 



Page e i g h I u - I T! o 



4 



J 



When an actor has cleverly mastered his lines 

Though the play may be weary and long-, 
The curtain is lifted a number of times 

To appease the demands of the throng; 
I am certain that when he at last ventures out 

To make a short speech and appears 
The greatest reward that is his, bevond (loul)t. 

Is the ringing a])plause in his ears. 

When a fellow has journeyed o'er life's rugged 
track 

Full eighty long laps to success, 
There are few who can sav as they proudly look 
back 

That they've played the game fair, I'll confess. 
For life's greatest winning is nf)t in the gold 

Or the pleasures that riches ensnare. 
Rut the sweetest reward, when the story is told, 

Comes from knowing we pla\ed on the s(|uare. 

I have just such a friend that I i)oint to with pride, 

Who has toiled bravely on toward the goal, 
He never has carried another man wide 

Or crowded the chap at the pole ; 
So here's my reward in a toast to his health. 

Till the stars in the heavens grow dim, 
The world needs not money to count as its wealth 

But a million more fellows like him. 






Page eighlu-lhret 



i 1 



L__!f 




ir-tOir^: 




McMAHON'S BOY 

Said "Zeekel" Smith to T.zra Moore 

As they whittled away at the village store, 

"I see that McMahon boy is back 

That made a name upon the track 

A-drivin' bosses fast and slow ; 

They say he's made a lot of dough ; 

I told the neighbors down my way 

That lad would make his mark some dav. 

And now that he has made plum good 

I'm glad, because I knowed he would. 

It hardly seems a dozen year 

Since he was messin' 'round us here, 

Playin' horse and catchin' frogs 

And tyin' cans to all the dogs ; 

I never yet could see just how 




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Page eighlu-fouf 



He got that heifer in the mow 
Of Jim Brown's barn, where seven men 
Could scarcely get her down again, 
Or how he got Si's chicken coop 
( )n top of ^\'ido\v Johnston's stoop. 
Hut that was years and years ago. 
And now I'm mighty glad to know- 
That though he's traveled 'round a lot, 
Through all the years he's not forgot. 
He's changed a heaj) I must admit. 
But then, time changes all a hit, 
And still I'm sure I recognize 
That same old twinkle in his eyes 
That they had on that Autunm day 
When he contrived to get away 
From school (he'd put some pepper on the stove) 
And teacher (she as was Miss (irove) 
Says, Richard, you come here, says she, 
And go and cut a switch for me. 
And Richard went, for she'd begun to cough 
And Dick allowed he might as well be off. 
We didn't hear from him for quite a spell 
And then news came that he was doin' well 
A-drivin' Major Muscovite, 
A horse that was first in many a fight. 
That boy could always find a way 
Of turning labor into play 
And gettin' money thick and fast 
Whether he was first or last. 
Why, one day up there in De Moin 
He must o' made a lot o' coin, 
'Cause I went up to see him drive, 



7 




Page e i g hi u - 1 ("vi 



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=m^^;. 



And goodness, gracious sakes alive, 

How he performed, and how he tore 

Away when they would turn to score. 

The man who stood in the little shed 

Would ring the bell and shake his head. 

And then he'd draw a small red flag 

And wave in the face of Richard's nag, 

And shout as they jogged back up to score, 

If you do it again you get fifty more. 

My, he must a made a lot of dough, 

'Cause they never once beat him there I know, 

And the sun was gettin' mighty low 

Before that feller shouted (io. 

But when at last they got the word, 

McMahon's boy flew like a bird 

Around the turn, in front a dozen rods. 

Too far to overcome the odds. 

At that he barely won the heat. 

And as he climbed down from his seat 

He paused a moment to remark, 

T like this racin' after dark, 

It's strange how nuts from little acorns grow, 

That starter never could say (io. 

He'll do quite well to tend to things up there, 

I'm being paid to w in with this old mare.' 

And later on I heard him say 

That he had foimd the only way 

That he could ever win a race 

From a bunch of steeds that he couldn't outj^ace 

Was to commence a little while before 

The rest of the horses left the score. 

And I knew he hit upon that plan 




Page e I s I' I U - S I X 



l-^J 



cm 




\ 



Long years l)efore he l)ecame a man, 

So that was the reason I never could catch 

The boy who raided my melon patch. 

If Richard had stayed around out here 

He mig-ht have been an auctioneer, 

Or mayl^e mayor of the town. 

Or like as not we'd sent him down 

To Washington to make our laws 

That we don't favor much because 

They're far too dry. and then I'll bet 

We could have kept this old state wet, 

And if it was, and we could have our brew 

We'd make him President, that's what we'd do. 

For a man who can drive a trotter straight 

I would trust at the helm of the ship of state. 

I'm glad McMahon's l)oy made good 

Because I alwavs said he would. 




^ 



fi a g e eighty. sevefl 




-^jLi^i^ari 



TWILIGHT 

My window faces toward the I'^ast 

And as I wait 
The twiHght steals unheeded o'er the bay, 

While twinkling warnings from the Golden Gate 
Beam out to warn the vessels on their way : 

Beneath that window calla lillies bloom, 
The California hills are fresh and green. 

The scent of roses fills my room 
And all about is tranquil and serene ; 

The darkness deepens and the daylight ends, 
The scene below enthralls me not the least, 

I dream tonight of old-time friends, 
My window faces toward the East. 




Page eighlv-eighl 




THE OLD HOMESTEAD 

You would hardly recognize it, 

It seems so bleak and bare, 
For the fine old trees are absent 

That once guarded it with care, 
And the peonies and snowballs 

That blossomed every May 
Have disappeared completely 

Since the Old Folks went away. 



The climbing" rose is missing" 
With its mass of scarlet bloom, 

Gone the purple lilac bushes 

With their wealth of sweet perfume, 




Page e i g h t V . n I n e 




And the shady apple orchard 

Where the toothsome dainties grew 

That hired me on my way from school 
Alas has passed from view. 

The little elevation 

That we chose to call a hill 
Has vanished with the flowers 

And the murmuring- brook is still 
That wandered through the meadows 

Where the clover dark and deep 
Watched lovingly above it 

Till it sang itself to sleep. 

The old red crib is standing" 

Where the golden seed corn hung, 
Near the woodshed where we gathered 

When the dinner bell had rung, 
And a score of handsome horses 

That could win a prize, I know, 
Had been safely fed and cared for 

In the stable broad and low. 

Once another red-haired youngster 

Daily tramped the dusty trail. 
And shared the home-made goodies 

From each shining dinner pail, 
Now no boyhood i)al awaits me 

For the auburn locks are gray 
And the homestead's bleak and lonely 

Since the Old Folks went away. 




^-^^ 



Hf^' 



Page ninety 




Just across the fields they're sleeping 

Where a stately pine tree stands 
.\nd points its silent finger 

To "a house not made with hands. 
Somehow heaven will be perfect 

When we view it up above, 
If we find those precious Old Folks 

^Vnd the homestead that we love. 



^ 





Page nin«ly-one 




Standing there ui)on the pavement 

In a sleepy sort o' way 
Is a snow-white pair of horses 

That were once called dapple gray, 
And I pause in admiration 

And in reverence, as I seem 
To sense the faithful service 

Of that old white fire team. 



Just a score of years have vanished 
Since Old Fox first heard the bell, 

And Rags, a trifle younger. 
Served the city just as well ; 




Page n i n e iv I n o 





So my truant metiiory ranges 

To the things that time has wrought, 
As I ponder o'er the changes 

Since the old white team was Ijought. 



Once their step was Hght and airy 

Like a winsome, joyous l)ride. 
But the l)Uoyancy departed 

With the dapples from their side; 
Eyes are not so bright, I fancy, 

But I catch the old-time gleam 
When Haley drops the harness 

On the old white fire team. 

Possibly they're not so speedy, 

Time in his relentless roll 
Has demanded quite a tribute 

And collected quite a toll ; 
But somehow I've a notion 

That Haley's silvered hair 
Is due to his devotion 

And his love for that old pair. 

They have shared the joys and sorrows 

Of the city day by day. 
Joining with the silent mourners 

When our friends were laid away. 
But when gayer throngs were gathered 

They would champ their bits and prance 
To the strains of martial music 

\\'hen the boys came home from France. 




Page nintly -three 



When the old team came to serve us 

Motor trucks were still unknown, 
But they answered every purpose 

Quite unaided and alone ; 
What though muddy streets o'erwhelmed us, 

What though blizzards filled the air, 
W^e could rest securely knowing- 

That the old wdiite team was there. 

Then the "onward march of progress" 

Struck the city with a zest, 
And a motor truck was purchased 

That the agent called the best ; 
1 remember quite distinctly 

How he in his long discourse 
Depicted mental anguish 

At the passing- of the horse. 

Thus their fate seemed sealed comi)letely. 

But the wiser heads prevailed, 
And we kept them through the Winter, 

Lest the shiny motor failed ; 
Then there came that bitter evening 

When the cruel flames appalled 
And they saved our homes and dear ones 

While the handsome truck was stalled. 

Now I w^ake in abject horror 

When the bell rings after dark, 
Lest the carburetor's busted 

Or the spark plugs fail to spark ; 




Page n i n e ly ■/ u r 



And although 1 hear the clatter 
And the noise and siren's scream. 

I listen for the patter 

Of the old white fire team. 



) 



Years will come and in their comino- 

They will bring more modern ways 
To hght the fire demon 

Than Male}' and the grays, 
Vet to them is dtie the glory 

And as long as fires gleam, 
\A'e will tell the old, old story 

(Jf Haley and his team. 




Page ninety. five 




A REAL OPTIMIST 

"Dad, what is a horseman," a youngster inquired 
Of a horse-loving- father he greatly admired. 
"I read about chauffeurs and cars all the while 
But it seems to me horsemen are quite out of style, 
And teacher remarked that I should not repeat, 
But that she believed horsemen were quite obsolete, 
Now just what she meant I can't well make out, 
So I thought I would ask you what it was about." 



l^SKOt, 



Page n i n e I y ■ 3 i X 



The Year Book Dad studied was closed with a slap 

As he cuddled the (juestioner up in his lap ; 

"My hoy, you may tell her I find as a rule 

That the most of life's lessons are not learned in 

school. 
The love of a trotter you don't get from books 
And you can't pick a i)acer because of his looks. 
A fellow can't chum with a horse every day 
\\'ithout beins^- bi^-i^er and l)etter some way; 
The friends and the horses most trusted and tried 
Are the ones that will stand without being' tied. 
You can tell her for me that a horseman's a chap 
Who knows all the principal towns on the map ; 
He can g'ive you the dates when the races all start, 
He knows wdien the trains all arrive and depart : 
He can give you the name and the breeding offhand 
( )f every sensational steed in the land. 
A horseman's a fellow wdio laughs at defeat 
And smilingly comes to the scratch every heat, 
And whether it's Winter or Summer or Fall, 
He's true to his partner that stands in the stall. 
Though the rain spoils the races he knows in the end 
It will nourish the grass for his four-footed friend. 
A horseman's a chap who will gi^-e his last sou 
To a friend in distress if he knows he's true blue; 
He reads in the coals of the old otfice stove 
The future success of that colt that he drove, 
And each fleecy cloud in the blue of the sky 
Means a winning for him in the sweet bye-and-bye. 
A horseman's a man, as I told you before. 
Who don't get his knowledge from any book store; 
He invoices all of the pleasure he gets 



Page n i n e I y - s e V e n 



/ 



And closes each season without the regrets ; 

If his trotter don't win quite as much as he should 

He knows that NEXT YEAR he is bound to make 

good. 
Just say to your teacher, your daddy insists, 
That a horseman's the greatest of all optimists." 




V 



Page ninety-tight 




THE BLACKSMITH SHOP 

There's a sleepy little village 

Nestling- in a vast domain, 
(iiiarded by the seried corn fields 

And by shocks of golden grain, 
Just a half a dozen houses 

And a chtirch and school and store, 
And a dingy little blacksmith shop 

With pictures on the door. 

There's no slippery, treacherous pavement, 

There's no sidewalk and no curb. 
There's no smoky, ruml^ling railroad 

And no street cars to disturl), 
Yet I'd guide my wandering footsteps 

To this (juiet scene and stop 
With head l)owed low in reverence 

For that little blacksmith shop. 



Page hinely-nine 



'Twas a sort of civic center 

In the (lays of long" ago ; 
With its welcome roof a refuge 

From the sun or from the snow, 
And the smithy's cheery greetings 

Always tempted us to strav 
To the dusky little blacksmith shop 

1'hat stood across the \\a\'. 

With its windows barred and 1)roken 

And its moss-grown shingles curled. 
It was still in boyhood fancies 

Quite the best in all the world ; 
For its weather-beaten battens 

Would flame anew each Spring 
With the gorgeous new creations 

That the poster man would bring. 

Fnvied was the lucky culprit 

Teacher stood upon the floor. 
For he could watch proceedings 

Through the open schoolhouse door ; 
He could see the poster fellow ,j i:j 

Clean the little blacksmith shop ll 

And paste another picture '' 

From the bottom to the top. 

Some kids loved the circus posters 

With the lions in their rage 
And a lady calndy sitting 

In the tawnv tiger's cage ; 
But the picture most entrancing ) 

That glued me to the spot j 

Was the rearing, plunging horses 

Entered at the county trot. ; 



h e h u h J r rtt 



P'our — a l:)ay, a gray, a chestnut . 

And a black one on a break, 
While his driver's frantic efforts 

Caused my boyish heart to ache, 
Thus I stood there in the gloaming 

Of that happy Summer day 
When the trotting bills were posted 

( )m the shop across the way. 

I have seen the Rosa Bonheurs 

And the Keiths and Rembrandts, too. 
Of many famous pictures 

I have since then had a view ; 
But there's nothing halts my footsteps 

And causes me to stop. 
Like a flaming trotting poster 

Pasted on a blacksmith shop. 




One hundred o n i 




THE SPORT WORTH WHILE 

There's a mighty satisfaction 

When the tish are biting- good. 
And you quickly get your hmit 

As a hicky angler should ; 
To the chap who is a hunter 

It must be a jov indeed 
To bag' a brace of mallards 

livery time }'ou draw a bead ; 
There nuist be a lot of ])leasiu"e 

In the games of golf or chess 
If your winning and your partner 

Is plainly in distress ; 
But oh, the joy worth knowing" 

That nothing ecpials (juite. 
Is to feel the thrill of rapture 

When your trotter's going right. 



v> 



One hundred two 



When the morning" light is l)reaking' 

To the robin's sweet refrain. 
And you grab your cakes and cotTee 

Like you had to catch a train, 
\\'hen your wife in l)lank amazement 

Wonders why you're up so soon. 
And explains to yawning kiddies, 

"Daddy won't be home till noon." 
When you don your old white Stetson 

And kiss them at the door. 
As you pause to fill the wood-box 

That you've passed so oft before, 
llien it is that life's worth living 

And the old world's mighty bright, 
'Cause his name's among the entries 

And your trotter's working right. 




■ BOOTS ALL ON HIM 



One hundred h r e d 



When you reach the ckisty ovaf 

And you say to Windy Al, 
"Just put the l)oots all on him 

And I'll step him up, old Pal." 
When you take the sulky gently 

From its peg up on the wall. 
And l)lo\v up the i)esky tires 

That were none too good last Fall, 
When you jog him till he's ready 
And turn him at the score, 
And he seems to pull you faster 

Than he ever has before. 
Then it is you count your money, 

For he's charmed you by his flight, 
And you can't be pessimistic 

When your trotter's working right. 



§ 




One h u n a r e a / o U f 



/ .,, .. .>o to all you sportsmen 

Misguided but sincere, 
I've a bit of information 

I would whisper in your ear. 
If you enjoy your fishing 
Or any sport you've found, 
If you like to go a-hunting 

( )r chase the pill around. 
Just keep it u\) l)Ut take a ride 

Behind a horse at speed, 
1 will not advise you further. 

There won't be any need, 
You'll sell the whole equipment 

Before tomorrow night, 
If you'll sit behind a trotter 

Or a pacer when he's right. 



One hundred five 



FINIS 



The tan-l)ark riiii;" is hushed and still 
And fitful shadows play 
W^iere crafty riders rode at will 
The steeds of yesterday; 
y\nd yet how like the ring" is life, 
We ))rimp and strut and bravely try 
l^'or one brief moment in the strife 
To shine triunrnliant in the Judge's eve; 
Some day the silvery bugle's tone 
Will call us to the (ireat Unknown, 
And when ( )ld (labriel blows his blast 
And Peter swings the gate at last 
We'll find performance counts far more 
Than conformation in the score 
Idiat's kept up there, and so my friend 
Let us so live that in the end 
\\'hen all life's show is through 
We'll g-et a RLUh:. 



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